In Heaven no one will ask are they deserved or not. Falling to sleep with wind in the tops of hungry maples. And later you came in and we made love the way we do - a softness, slowly, a cry. A mouthful of pillow so as not to wake the children. And after gratitude, warming tea, and talking about our favorite fall.
In the corner, the fan from my childhood gathers dust. And Venus moves unseen through the sky, awaiting the sun's descent in order to briefly gleam on the westernmost rim of the sky. Who writes is blessed, like the end of clocks. Answered prayer, endless hymns. Porcelain predators line the window sill.
What is happiness in a world of scarcity? Why does God bother? All night dreaming of birch trees and traces of water in my palm. It must matter, she wrote, but then wrote no more. Teachers come and go when the student is not sure if they are ready.
A quartz silo glittering as the sun rises. The last petal of the last daisy falls softly to the frosty earth. Starlight takes a long time to find our eyes. One struggles to accept the love of Zinnias. The road home winding through billowing dark.
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